


this brief reprieve

by bloodyhoneymoon



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: (nothing graphic) - Freeform, Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kid Fic, Pre-Canon, Suicide Attempt, baby dragons!!! baby dragons, entirely based on the dialogue where lehran mentions singing to baby!kurth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23062414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodyhoneymoon/pseuds/bloodyhoneymoon
Summary: Lehran spends time in Goldoa.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	this brief reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> i like the goldoans too much!!!! i have just been Thinking about how lehran sang to kurth thats just....... so cute....... i Also kinda played w the hc that their mom died after kurth was born
> 
> DISCLAIMER this was Mostly written at 3 am ghdfj
> 
> title is from sundial by lemon demon

He awoke to softness beneath him and a pure, bright light obscuring his vision, and for a moment, he allowed himself to be pierced by a pinprick of hope. Perhaps, he allowed himself to entertain, he’d finally succeeded, perhaps this was it, this was his relief, the clean and shameless colour of after. His heart swelled in a momentary high. 

Once Lehran moved, however, lightning struck that oh-so-high tower of his hopes and desires. Screeching pain shot down his every nerve with the slightest motion of his hand, a rip of nerves stretching from wing tips to toes. His wings. 

Wings, wings, wings. He wilted as though stabbed, and closed his eyes once more, trying to ignore his living, breathing body as it lay in the bed. Sleep, he figured, was the next best thing; surely it would drive off the dread that was reality, it would get the terrible sickness in his heart to leave him alone. If he was lucky, perhaps the man sitting at his bedside would leave him alone too.

Lehran, however, knew Dheginsea better than that.

The silence he brought with him was overpowering, oppressive. It was like a smokescreen, making the act of breathing even more of a challenge for Lehran. He could feel a curling cold coming off of the king, something almost bordering on concern, if he was capable of it. The feeling settled in the pit of Lehran’s stomach along with all the other anxieties he’d been swallowing as of late.

Dheginsea cleared his throat, a sharp rumble that might have pierced his eardrums.

“Lehran.” 

He did not open his eyes. He wished to be petty, bitter, not give his friend any sort of satisfaction. He was unclean and unworthy and he was going to drown in it.

The damned bull would not be deterred. “Lehran,” Dheginsea began again, gruff. He did not wait for an answer this time. “You will stay in Goldoa from here on out.”

With Herculean effort, Lehran managed to pry his eyelids apart from each other. Not daring to move his head, he glanced to his friend, expecting to find a piercing gaze, every bit imperious as immovable. Instead, he found Dheginsea’s sombre eyes doing naught but staring idly at hands clasped in his lap. 

He wanted to respond, but found that he could not even croak out his words.

*

For how reservedly he came across, King Dheginsea certainly was a proud man. Lehran had been aware of this for as long as he had known him, by the way he carried himself and how he chose his words. He felt it radiate from him, during their battles and afterwards. He felt it when Dheginsea strode into Lehran’s quarters, a tiny swaddled thing in his arms, Gareth following behind him.

Lehran took respite from tracing patterns along the hem of his shirt collar to greet his visitors. “Good evening,” he said, airy and thin. He eyed the bundle held against the king’s chest. He’d known that the queen had been pregnant, that Dheginsea would be a father, but had gently pushed the fact into some alcove of his mind where he would be safe from his own bad habit of picking at scabs. “Is…?”

Dheginsea did not respond, but his eyes shone in a peculiar way that inspired a second-hand satisfaction and, more distantly, a pain in Lehran’s chest. Gareth, ever dutiful, pulled a desk chair across the rug to where Lehran sat on the edge of his bed, and the king took a seat in it. He sat the lump of cloth in his lap and began to unwrap it, taking care in how his hands moved.

There, engulfed in what seemed to be a sea of deep green fabric contained within the width of Dheginsea’s legs, was an infant. The child was old enough to have a head of hair, darker than the king’s. A red birthmark in the middle of the forehead graced warm brown skin. Two fingers fixed in his mouth, the baby gazed about the room sleepily. 

“Sir Lehran, we would like to introduce you to Crown Prince Rajaion,” Gareth announced from the king’s side. Rajaion hummed thoughtfully as though he was agreeing, somewhat muffled as he continued to teethe at his fingers. He seemed perfectly content to survey the room from his perch, occasionally patting his nest of blankets with his other tiny hand.

Like a flood, Lehran was overcome by ghostly what-ifs. A suffocating chill wrapped its skeletal hands around his heart and squeezed. The cold reality of what he'd missed, and he had missed so much; her tiny hands, her wandering eyes, and oh, her  _ mother,  _ that joy in her voice _ … _

He allowed himself to pretend, just for a moment, that he didn’t deserve this fate.

Lehran closed his mouth, for his jaw had become slack. He craned down to meet the little prince at eye level. Somehow, Rajaion had seemingly noticed everything in the room except for him, and he stared in wonder at his raven-coloured wings, cooing and gabbing. Slow, cautious, Lehran stretched his hand out to the baby boy and gave him a tired smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” he said, voice soft. 

With little hesitation, Rajaion grasped Lehran’s thumb with his free hand. He cooed, and gave him a messy, toothless smile in return.

Lehran’s eyes began to sting for reasons he could not quite parse.

*

Absently, barely lucid, he would wonder if she’d died yet. He wanted to think that Dheginsea would tell him when she did, but he was not so naive as that, because he  _ saw,  _ he saw how the king looked at him, and he felt it even more, and it felt disgusting, acidic, his pity.

He prayed with everything he had for her health.

*

He enjoyed the daylight of the palace while he still could, before any children grew old enough to question the presence of a heron, stealing away an hour or two to watch the sun sail across the sky. He loved to remind himself of the passing of time; he figured he needed to punish himself somehow. The sun’s warm rays made themselves at home in the dancing green grace of the courtyard, adoring the pale skin of Lehran’s face and hands; not daring to tell him the years that had passed, but simply planting the seed of dread in his mind. As the sunbeams kissed him, he felt that the ground may collapse beneath him where he sat, and that, just maybe, that would be for the better.

Lehran looked down to his arms and considered the pulse within his wrists, but found himself interrupted by a dark, bulky figure making its way over to him. Thoughts too muddled to fully realize who it was until it began to speak, he blinked, bewildered.

"I'm afraid she's a bit fussy today," Gareth reported, an apologetic note in his voice. He cradled the girl clumsily, sidling down by where Lehran sat in the courtyard. "His Majesty insisted you meet her, though."

Waking from a stupor, he realized he was looking at a new child. The baby had the warm skin and silky hair of her brother, and a shock of red peeked from the side of her forehead. She whimpered when the sunshine hit her face in full-force, wrinkling her nose. She slapped Gareth’s arm with all the force her tiny hand could muster until he let out a small “oh,” and turned her away from its gaze. As he did this, he lowered her, bringing her closer to Lehran.

“Would you like to hold her, Sir Lehran?”

“I...” He held out his arms to her, scarcely operating on thought. “Does she…?”

Gareth cleared his throat, gently holding the back of her neck, hovering the baby above Lehran’s hands, terrified. “Her name is Almedha.”

Almedha looked rather fed up with being suspended in the air, and began to grunt. She was lowered, head settled safely into Lehran’s arm, when Gareth’s grip on her legs slipped.

Unhurt, she plopped into Lehran’s lap, but the damage had been done; she had felt the fall. He felt it too, her fear of the unpleasant, being unprotected. There was a bundle of  _ scared _ welling up inside of the baby.

Almedha’s face scrunched up, and she started to wail. 

Propping her up in his lap, he acted on instinct as he rubbed circles into her back, holding her close and letting her cry against the silken fabric of his breast pocket. He started rocking his body forwards and back, falling into a mellow rhythm, keeping time with his feet. Lehran politely chose to ignore the mortified expression on Gareth’s face, and instead stayed his attention on the baby girl’s gasping breaths in between sobs.

He could not help but marvel at her. The little princess had scarcely felt the sun before in her life. The tiniest slip of the hand had resulted in what was perhaps the most frightening thing she had ever experienced. 

Tender, careful, he pulled Almedha closer. Lehran began to hum for her; in some far-off corner of his brain, he could still envision the shrouds of gorgeous, holy light that would have enveloped the child in his arms, soothing her, drying her tears. The acid of his stomach felt acrid in his throat, and he pushed it down again. If all he could do was hum, then hum he would. He sang softly to her until her breathing calmed, and thereafter.

He ached at the mere thought of all the fears that the centuries would bring her.

*

Some days, he could do nothing but remember the roaring waves of the Goldoan shore, how the perfect, angry blue screamed and crashed and threw itself against the crags of the cliff. It would swirl within itself, dark with azure capped with whites and blazing yellows as the sun would set. It never seemed to know tranquility, yet looking upon it from the edge seemed to cool the burn within him. The ebb and flow would never end, never die.

Lehran supposed that Dheginsea had grown sick of fishing his limp body from the sea, so now, forbidden, he could only call on his memory of it as he sat broken in bed.

*

Inside the palace walls, the wee hours of morning were Lehran’s domain. The prince was old enough to question his presence to Dheginsea, and questioning Dheginsea, no matter the subject, usually held consequence for somebody. 

Despite restrictions, he found that he did not mind it so much. The sedated light of the moon was far kinder to him than the sun, and he was free to roam the stony halls of the palace at his leisure, admiring small detailing in the rugs and tapestries that adorned the corridors. 

One night in particular, he found himself strolling along to the royal library. It was cavernous, one of the larger rooms within the walls, with an impressive trove of knowledge, some dating back to the floodtimes. He had made a hobby of working his way through sections of the library, presently busying himself with literature on the local flora. Armed with a mind ready to be busied and a rice biscuit in his pocket, he strode along to absorb more information on the Goldoan lucerne. 

He drifted down the hall, wings tucked beneath his robes. The sound of his feet on the floor reverberated. Hollow noise filled the space and his ears, constant as a heartbeat and twice as deafening. The darkness only lent itself to the otherwise silent, still corridor. There was something perfect about it, being alone there, and Lehran could almost understand the King’s adherence to his perfect isolation. 

Until he was no longer alone. Too far off to see but more than near enough to feel, a soft, tired haze made its way into his field of sense. Abrupt, (a cardiac arrest), he stopped his paces completely to listen. 

Sure enough, a muddled pitter-patter approached from the end of the hall, an irregular gait for the usual night watch. Lehran choked on his breath, and sought a place to hide himself; naught was to be found but a sparse, skinny spider plant resting upon an end table in front of a window. He resigned himself to the middle of the hall, in plain view, waiting for whatever crept towards him. 

The moonlit shadows of two tiny figures spread out onto the stony walls. Lehran exhaled. There were certainly worse people to have a run-in with at such an hour.

Rajaion had not yet seemed to notice him, far too busy watching both his own and his sister’s steps. Almedha, however, who toddled alongside him, chubby hand clasped by his, was gazing straight ahead at Lehran, and pointed. The prince stopped in his tracks, alarm spreading across his face. His eyes flew from the man in front of him, to the darkness behind him, down to his sister, and back again.

Cautiously, Lehran took a few steps closer and knelt down to be at their eye level. “Good evening, Your Highnesses.” He plastered on a soft smile. “You’re up awfully late. Does Sir Gareth know where you are?”

A common bit of gossip amongst castle staff and other dragon nobility, to Lehran’s knowledge, was that the prince and princess had gotten their looks almost solely from their mother (“And really, what a relief for them,” he’d heard one maid remark, “such pretty hair and eyes!”), even to the point where the absolute busiest of bodies would rumour that they were not, in fact, His Majesty’s children.

Such an idea was very easily put to rest, however, by the puzzled look Lehran received from the two children. He almost laughed in pure, genuine amusement; both their eyebrows were drawn in a strong furrow, eyes narrowed and piercing, lips pursed as both Rajaion and Almedha inspected the man before them. It was a comically severe expression for them to be wearing, one that Lehran had seen the King give on a nigh-daily basis to someone or another. They were certainly Dheginsea’s.

The little prince cleared his throat, stepping forward as though to shield his sister from Lehran, if only by a small amount. “W-we,” he started, trying to steel himself. Lehran almost chuckled; the boy was scarcely sixty years old, and his efforts were commendable. “We’re going to the kitchens.”

“Snack,” the baby girl interjected helpfully. She teetered back and forth, still holding Rajaion’s hand.

“She’s hungry,” her brother interpreted. He was still in a cautious stance, partially in front of her. Wary, protective. Scared. Lehran imagined what he might hear, were he capable of the dragons’ direct telepathy.  _ Who are you? Why are you here?,  _ perhaps. Maybe even a  _ how do you know Sir Gareth? _

Something struck him, and he fished the rice biscuit from the pocket of his robes. He had intended to nibble at it in case his reading took him to even unholier hours, and hunger overtook him. “You must return to bed, Your Highnesses.” He stretched out his hand, holding the biscuit out for Rajaion to take. The prince’s eyes scanned him up and down, and he carefully sniffed the offering in his hand, looking it over and over before conceding and handing it to Almedha. “Or else, I shall be certain to inform Sir Gareth of your… adventure,” Lehran said, letting a smile reach his voice.

The boy’s expression became considerably more sheepish. He quickly bowed his head, murmured a “thank you, sir”, and gently herded his sister into turning around and walking from whence they came. The princess, chewing on her snack, gave Lehran one last curious glance.

He looked away.

*

“...She wanted you to have these.”

Lehran stared blankly at the broad, lengthy package that had been placed onto the woven fabric of his quilt. The weight was overpowering, even for the muscle of his thighs, and he shifted his legs to relieve himself. How she’d held it all at once was far beyond him. The enchantment coursing through it left a lasting impression, even through the layers of his blankets, making his skin tingle and sending a distant yet familiar surge across his body. An electric sensation flooded his abdomen, and the nausea stayed long after the energy dissipated. 

He missed Her, but not as much as he missed her.

He did not unwrap the blades, but ran a hand around the outline. “She has been gone for some time,” he commented, voice light, as though remarking on the weather.

Silent, Dheginsea kept his eyes keenly focused on the swords. He made no move, no gesture of the hands, no sharp breaths, ever steady. His aura was hollow as Lehran’s own chest.

“Thank you.”

*

Gently, Lehran pried a little fist from his nose. The child in his lap was indeed very fond of running amok, but fortunately did not have the grip strength to do any real harm. His motions were still jerky and new. He would chirp and babble for nearly a minute straight, squinting up at Lehran once he was done, letting out an inquisitive “Bah?” if he did not respond in time.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Lehran murmured. He gave him the warmest smile he could muster, blocking the small brown hand from grasping his nose once more.

For a precious moment, Kurthnaga giggled, and Lehran’s smile became more genuine.

A low, laboured sigh from the chair opposite to him filled the air of the chambers, but neither he nor the prince paid it any mind. The sound of it was prolonged, but seemed to thin out and dissipate as it drifted through the open window. 

For Lehran, though, it was very easy to feel the balloon and collapse of Dheginsea’s chest, heaving for every breath, a secluded pain at the loss of the queen. The murky vibrations of his sorrow clouded the room, and would have been overwhelming if not for the chatting and cooing of the baby in his lap. 

As Dheginsea had for nearly centuries, so too would Lehran sit and say nothing of it.

Kurthnaga, starry-eyed, reached up to grab and pull the silken black hair dangling in front of him. His mystified expression seemed to suggest that he had no idea of its origin or purpose, and he tested a yank on it.

“Agh!” Lehran hurried to pry his fist away once more. “Ah, Prince Kurthnaga… That would be my hair,” he told him, voice gentle and level. “I would appreciate it very much if you would not pull it.”

The prince blinked twice and let out a very large yawn. 

He made no protest when Lehran, face soft, took him in his arms and swayed lightly, rocking him back and forth. The weight was almost foreign to him; he was easily smaller than either of his siblings had been at this age, and it had been decades upon decades since Almedha had been this size. 

Even the mighty black dragons were not free from time as he was. In what might feel like an insignificant amount of time to Lehran, the children would grow and eventually succeed their father. Eyes fixed upon his own fragile, pale hands for just a moment, he considered his own condemnation of forever. Perhaps he’d grown to accept it. If not, he was at least a little closer to complacency. 

But then, it didn’t have to be forever, did it?

The baby boy let out a tiny huff, fussing with his legs in an attempt to get comfortable. Jolted from his thoughts, Lehran refocused himself, adjusting Kurthnaga’s head upon his shoulder, leaning back to accommodate him. He took a deep breath, ignoring the long-festering cries of his heart, and sang for him, only just above a whisper. 

It was almost cathartic, as though he was purging something overflowing, something that had been sitting too long, stretching a seldom-used muscle. It was clenching, wrenching him out of his depths and back into them all at once. His throat had almost forgotten the taste of sweet music, but memory and old habit made fine work of any tune. Like a pressed flower, his song had lost all use, any real vitality, but still remained beautiful, still brought joy. 

Kurthnaga was not long to sleep, a warm lump snuggled up in his arms.

Now, there was no distraction from Dheginsea, who had not shifted, his face in his hands. Long after Lehran’s birdsong, he heaved another mighty sigh, a gust with the force to move mountains. 

“He did not kill her. You know that.” Lehran spoke to him from across the room, hushed.

The king did not straighten up, but he moved his hands to his lap, giving the heron a pointed look. He squinted, as though daring him to continue.

“Dheginsea,” Lehran went on, soft as to not disturb the baby, a volume which did not hide his indignance. “Not another soul blames this child for her death. He does not yet know evil. He does not yet know what it is to kill, or to hurt.”

A fire, a rash energy seemed to emanate for a mere second before falling away to something earnest and thoughtful. Dheginsea turned his body away, becoming interested in a fine crimson tapestry upon the wall. Lehran understood with every nerve in his body the pain that he was going through, but could not begin to commune with how he acted after the fact.

The infant stirred, humming and tossing, but did not wake. He let out a sweet little sigh, interrupting his snuffles of breath.

Lehran’s voice trembled.

“Never teach him.”

  
  


*

The last thing Lehran felt on his lips was a sharp, incredulous, disgusted laugh, and a final statement of exhaustion, of disbelief.

“You astound me completely, Dheginsea.”

The man before him remained indifferent, his mouth an unbreakable line and his eyes stony. The energy about him was distant and unmoved, as it always had been, always was, and always would be. The king of Goldoa, Lehran figured, could hear the screams, the pain of the world for millennia, and still would never uncover his ears. 

The word that sat unspoken on Lehran’s tongue, burning like venom, was “cruel”. When pelted with criticism, Dheginsea would claim arguments of greater goods, and avoiding certain death for all. He, of course, stubborn as he was, would not be dissuaded from the point of view that his ideals were correct. 

_ Avoiding certain death does not matter much to those condemned to fates worse than death _ , Lehran supposed. His thoughts churned with his emotions, mind stewing in his heart’s rage until he was unable to make any further retort against the king.  _ It does not matter much to those who would rather be dead than abused or hunted or enslaved. It does not matter when they know the world to be dirty. _

And Dheginsea would sit and pretend he was doing a service to the world. 

He turned on his heel to collect his belongings. “Farewell.”

The king did not move.


End file.
